Three Minutes to Save the World
by Indigo2831
Summary: Tag to "The Devil You Know." Sam thought withdrawal was bad until he has a severe craving. After Brady's death, he's sick, aching for Jess & the life he'd left behind. Hurt/Comfort with a doomed romance, BigBrother Dean & StanfordSam. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

With this story, I focused on one of my favorite episodes of Season 5, "The Devil You Know." It opened up an entire world for me about Sam and Stanford, which is all still a mystery. I'm a sucker for Sam Winchester angst, so there will be plenty to go around.

This entire story was revised on September 1st.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Sam had wanted so much out of life: normalcy, safety, love, family, a permanent address. But someone, maybe even God, had decided that he deserved this life: an existence of snowballing, hellacious torment. Some force bigger than him had hand-plucked Sam to be the villain, the betrayer, the Darth Vader.

And that had forced him to do hideous, unforgivable things, like kill a demon that was wearing his best friend.

Sam stalked away—a tiger after the hunt—and felt the ground beneath him shift and drop, bringing him that much closer to hell, and that much further than all the things he'd ever wanted.

Somehow, he ended up on his knees, gripping the door of the Impala, breath chugging through him like a locomotive, doing his best not to retch or think or _remember_.

But his mind did anyway, conjuring up vivid flashes of parties and barbecues. The feel of Jess's fingers curled into his. The sweet smell of her skin.

He could hear the rich lilt of her voice, the taste of her tears, and the twinkle of her laugh. And while the memories were mostly balm to all of the scorched parts of his soul, now, when he knew that the love of his life, the most beautiful thing that had happened to him, had been orchestrated solely to manipulate him, it only hurt.

-o-

_Sam's hair was too short. He'd gotten it cut that afternoon, and the stylist had scalped him, slathered his head in product and charged him forty bucks. He'd fought not to tug at it, and instead took a swig from the sweating longneck in his hand as his eyes swam around the enormity of the house. It was already his second year at Stanford, and Sam, the guy who never had a permanent address until he was nearly nineteen, still wasn't used to the decadence in which some people lived. _

_He ventured outside, where a bonfire burped sparks into dark night, and the music was so obscenely loud, the beats reverberated in his chest. _

_He found Brady, and his trustfund arrogance, perched in a middle of a cabana. He was drunk. Again. From the looks of the pill bottles littering the table, and his blown pupils he had also raided his parents' supply of prescription drugs. Sam sighed in disgust at his friend, who'd went away on holiday happy and healthy, and returned with an edge and a half-dozen self-destructive vices. He locked eyes with him, shaking his head and backed away. "Oh Christ, Sam, wait!" Brady weaved over to him, loose and fluid. _

"_I thought we talked about your drinking, ya know, when you totaled my car." _

"_Sam, angel on my shoulderr, straight arrow in my side. I did you a favor. That car was a piece of scrap metal. And I told you I'd...reimbursh you, dude."_

_Sam crossed his arms over his chest. _

"_Christ, Sam, relax. Take the stick out and have some fun." Brady laughed him off, stumbling as if he was trying to balance on a log and not a sandy, yet solid beach. "How many times have I told you I repay my debts?" He held up the keys to the Lexus SUV that Sam had secretly coveted. "It's yours until you're tired of it." _

_His face remained tight with exasperation, waiting for the condition. _

"_But one quick thing…dude, I need to you to entertain a girl for me. I invited her…and she's dying of boredom, and I can't have that. Can you just…show her a good time? Take her up the coast or…wooo her with Shakespeare. Use that Sammy charm." _

_Brady disappeared into a clutch of people before Sam could emphatically decline, and left him wondering why he was so patient with a guy who wanted to forfeit his life—and a brilliant legal career—to drugs and booze and reckless sex. _

_He'd never forget when he'd first set eyes on Jessica Moore…the glimmer of colored lights popping behind her like the very essence of life was telling him that she was extraordinary. The way his heart leapt upwards and his cheeks flushed in a flash of heat. Suddenly, he believed that love was an actual fall, and that it could happen in mere moments._

_Sam stammered through the introduction, rattling off some embarrassing fact about Latin inscription on the pendant she wore. And then she smiled a little, head tilting towards his, blonde waves spilling onto her shoulders, "I like your hair." _

-o-

His eyes popped open, swimming with sweat and tears. Sam wiped them on his shoulder, letting reality settle, letting the dream fade into the ash that it was. But the adrenaline, the jitteriness didn't recede, it intensified into a clawing burn on his skin and a hunger that ebbed from…everywhere.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't remember her and know that the purest thing in his life had been tainted. Everything else had been taken from him, and Sam had treasured his love for Jess as the pure gift it was. But it was confirmed that everything he'd touched would be poisoned. He was the Midas of the underworld. The only way Sam got out of bed in the morning was by carefully thinking about Jess and Stanford, and not all he'd lost or all he'd done, and now it was unavoidable.

He yearned to be cold and impenetrable—not like Castiel who was absorbing emotion by the day—but like he was before. He was strong and fierce and demons didn't screw with the giant hunter who didn't even need weapons or salt lines or exorcisms to take a demon out. The blood, as evil has it was, had insulated him from the daily horror show that was his life.

He needed the blood. He _craved_ it.

In a fleeting burst of determination, Sam dug through the weapons bag, grabbing the handcuffs, but leaving the keys. He padded past Dean and into the utilitarian bathroom decked out in a mosaic of green tiles, from avocado to hunter. The trap of the sink an old, thick metal, and Sam wasn't sure if it would hold him at the worst of it, but nothing else would.

He locked himself down, hands stretched under the sink, back against the edge of the tub, long legs awkwardly bent across the length of the bathroom.

The pull came then, deep within him, a visceral scream. It hurt, but Sam knew it could be worse, even when his sweat puckered through his pores and his head ached and his stomach was knotted with queasiness.

Sam closed his eyes and took it like the monster he was.


	2. Chapter 2

This entire story was revised on September 1st.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 2**

Dean needed sleep. A few hours of blissful oblivion, and he'd be happy, over-the-moon. Thrilled. Thanks to his time in the pit, Dean had surprising control over his dreams, and tonight he'd planned a masterpiece about a never-ending buffet of pies. Cherry, apple, rhubarb, huckleberry, chocolate…all for him, and plated on the naked bodies of his favorite busty beauties.

Yet his mind was too overloaded to let his subconscious take over, because his brother had been dealt another cosmic kick-in-the-teeth, and what was left of Dean's heart broke for him. So he tossed and turned, fighting for his one true reprieve. He was turning again, seriously contemplating punching himself in the face just to get some rest when he noticed the rumpled, Sasquatch-free bed.

Sleep was now the last thing on Dean's mind. He was up and searching for Sam in less than a second, knowing that tonight was not a good day to lose his brother.

The light was on in the bathroom and Dean stood by the door, head bent, listening to what he hoped wasn't his brother doing private business.

Dean was a conductor in the symphony of Sam, and knew every sound he made, even the gross ones. There was no disgustingness, just noises of Sam in distress. Sam in pain.

Carefully, he pushed open the door which glided a few inches before it softly butted against the shins of Sam's freaky long legs.

Dean's stomach clenched as he saw his brother, trussed up like a thug on a cop show. He was sweaty and shaky and biting his lip to keep himself quiet.

"Sam," Dean called softly, crossing his arms over his chest. "What's going on?" He asked, although the handcuffs gave him an idea.

Sam's eyes didn't open. "…craving…a bad one…"

His eyebrows climbed. "_Cravings_ do this to you?"

He twitched, rattling the handcuffs in a rhythm that made Dean restless. "…guess so."

Sam's forehead wrinkled, head hanging forward. "…'mfine…go back to sleep."

He had cravings before, Dean had noticed. Sam never said it, but sometimes, he flashed him a look that alerted Dean that he needed to be watched, that Sam wasn't trusting himself. It never lasted more than a few uncomfortable minutes, sometimes an hour. And Dean was always there.

Dean put on a shirt, brewed a pot of coffee and gathered up a few magazines and his pillow. He headed back to the tiny bathroom. There was no way they'd both fit, but Dean leaned tried anyway, managing to find a small space on the far wall. He spread out a towel and sat down, angling his legs through the doorway. His back would be sore tomorrow, but at least Sam wouldn't be alone.

It was at least an hour before Sam even noticed he was there. "You should go back t'bed."

Dean sipped his coffee, and suppressed rolling his eyes. "I'm fine here."

Sam gasped, face tightening. He bowed, legs curling tight to his body.

Dean hovered over him, knowing pain when he saw it. "What do you need, Sam?"

He shook his head, back arching. The pain was coming in escalating waves. Dean cringed, wishing he could fix it. Sam's jaw was locked, trapping in moans of discomfort.

Dean was scared. "It's okay, Sam, it's gonna be fine. Just breathe through it."

He lurched for the sink. He grabbed a hand towel, drenching it in cold water. He sat down again, wedging himself between Sam and the door. He swabbed Sam's hot forehead and neck.

Sam rattled the handcuffs, veins standing out like ropes. Dean could almost see the skin of his wrists, stretching and tearing as he tugged and fought. "Stop it, Sam, stop. You can do this, okay? You don't need it. You know you don't need it."

Bruised eyelids gave way to even darker eyes that bored directly through him. "Dean…_please_."

He held his ground. "Never gonna happen."

"I can't do this…Dean, I really _can't_."

Dean sat down beside him, knowing he was up for the night. "Yes, you can."

Sam sagged, arms falling limp as the rush of desperation faded. His head fell back against the tub with an alarming thump. He was silent for a long time. "You were right…never should have gone to Stanford."

Dean never thought he'd hear those words. As much as he'd wanted to in the past, it provided little comfort from him now. Stanford had been the best thing to happen to Sam, Dean had realized that not long after he'd left. "No, I wasn't."

"Something's been ridin'…my best friend for years…because of me. Jess died because of me…and…the guy she fell in love with wasn't even real. She didn't even know me."

Dean patted his shoulder, forgetting that Sam didn't like to be touched when he was in withdrawal, and apparently that was true now when Sam scooted away with a feral hiss. He stayed close, but nearly had to sit on his hands. "You were with her for almost three years, Sammy. She knew you."

"I barely told her 'bout you. Or dad." Sam argued.

Dean had known that, and begrudgingly understood. "That's because you knew she'd fall for me in a second," he teased.

His face soured and he shook his head, dropping the subject. "Need a favor."

"Name it, kid."

Sam licked his lips, visibly trying to focus. "There's a picture in…my journal, of my college friends. Their names are on the back…can you…check on them for me? See if they're okay?"

Dean rinsed the cloth again, by the time he turned back, Sam had dropped off—asleep, passed out, hallucinating, Dean couldn't be sure, but he was happy to forfeit his oblivion for Sam's.

He swiped the cloth over his feverish skin anyway, brushing away his damp hair. "I'm on it."

Dean tucked a towel under Sam's head and headed out to do some digging.

-o-

_Sam probably shouldn't have had all that alcohol. Most people liked drinking, and even got creative and acrobatic with it, but Sam didn't. Liquor made him fuzzy and stupid, and blunted the skills he'd spent his entire life honing. _

_Sam wanted to forget that it was his birthday and that Dean hadn't called him or even left some embarrassing stack of porn in his dorm room like he had last year. He wanted to forget that Brady was in rehab again, because Sam's last dorm room detox hadn't worked. And his roommate's stash of tequila seemed like an eighty-proof elixir for memory loss._

_Unfortunately, he'd only forgotten the important things—like where he was or how to navigate Stanford's shuttles—not that he was an orphan and a failure. Now he was lost and all he could recall was that he was alone. The California streets were all blurred blue of dusk, the houses just shadows with roofs and doors. He sat down and tried to clear his cotton-candy head. The air smelled like oranges and salt water. He wished it smelled like gunpowder and leather, just for today. _

"_Sam? Are you lurking on my steps?" _

_Sam staggered, squinting through the harsh light. A quick trip to get some air, and maybe some more alcohol had led him to Jess's campus apartment. _

"_Um…sorry. I was just…uh… California's big…and I got lost." He stepped blindly off the porch, remembering the big one, but not the two beneath it. He heard the thwack of flesh clapping concrete before he felt it. The booze had left him languid like an overgrown slinky. He pushed himself up, feeling muffled sparks of pain in his palms and wrists. They were raw and dotted with welling blood. _

_Jess pulled him up, steadying him when he swayed again. "Oh my god. You're blitzed." She discerned with an astonished smile. _

_He was an orphan, a failure, and a joke. _

_But Sam smiled, the shock making her face take on weird shapes. She was colorful too—yellow hair, crimson lips, blue eyes like a Picasso. Sam wondered if he'd ever refer to this as his Jess Period. "…lil' bit, yeah…" _

"_And you've just been walking around campus?" She nudged him towards the door and she wasn't smiling anymore. "Get your ass inside. How stupid are you?" _

_Sam was led into the building, up endless flights of stairs, and finally into the apartment that was big and bright with pretty curtains and flowers on the table. The bathroom was pretty too, white with more flowers. She rinsed his grated palms and smeared them with antibacterial. She didn't look amused now, just irritated and maybe disappointed. He didn't like the way those emotions grayed out her face. "It's my birfday," he mumbled to fill the silence, "and he didn't call. And my mom's dead, so I don't get a cake."_

_Jess' face changed again and he wasn't sure how to read it. "Who didn't call, Sam?" _

_They had become inseparable in the months since Brady's party. They were dancing around something more, and he knew she was waiting for him to take the lead. But he wasn't sure. He was certain that he could love her, that he could be with her, but he was scared of lurking evils. The evil that he couldn't bare if it touched her. The thought of being so honest and so vulnerable with someone when he had so many secrets was unnerving. _

_And the liquor had other ideas. Dean's not calling meant so much more than bruised pride, it meant he could be hurt or even dead. The last time Dean didn't call he'd been trapped in a well by an angry ghost, and it had taken three days to find him. His eyes were spilling before he'd even thought it stop it, and he heard a breathy sob. "My brother…" he rattled out, humiliated. _

_There was a hand on his back, rubbing softly. "I'm scared…Jess. I'm scared he's not okay. We had a fight after coming to school, but…he always calls. And he hasn't yet…and that's really bad." _

_He was little hysterical, he knew he was, but he couldn't stop it. It rolled out of him like a demon being expelling from its host. The next thing he knew, they were both on their knees in the hall of her apartment. And she was holding his hand._

_She gave him permission to be upset, to feel the years of isolating freedom, loneliness and pride. She asked questions, but never pushed. He woke up later that night on her couch, hungover and mortified. She took him out for tacos, claiming the grease would help his hangover. The place was some time-warp dinner between Malibu and L.A. It still had a jukebox and waitresses who wore the old-fashioned uniforms and sold huge, handmade pies. Jess bought him a whole apple pie and had the waitresses stick a candle in it. It was a slice of his childhood, a part of him that he'd missed desperately, the best present he could have gotten. _

_And that's when Sam knew he was going to marry Jessica Moore._


	3. Chapter 3

This entire story was revised on September 1st.

* * *

**Chapter 3**

It was never-ending, Sam thought as bile seared a shredded throat. At least with the withdrawal, he passed out, catching blissful blips of black. This was just falling into dreams and while still trapped in his revolting body. He choked, turning his head and puked on his shoulder instead of his lap. The handcuffs pulled taut as his stomach spasmed and he retched again. There was a rough-handed shove at the back of his neck. It guided his head down, so he was throwing up in the ice bucket.

It was too much, the handcuffs digging into his already abraded wrists, the ache in his shoulders, the acid corroding its way up his throat, the pain of Brady's possession, his life with Jess.

"Just hang on, Sammy. It's almost over."

Dean wasn't touching him if he didn't have to, but Sam's skin was crawling and burning, like it was covering in radioactive spiders. He moaned a bit as Dean cleaned him up and fed him some water.

"Your fever's getting worse." Dean mumbled as he literally cut his tee shirt off and scrubbed him down, leaving a painfully cold towel on his neck.

Sam squinted at him, arms burning. "Can you...take the handcuffs off? Just for a second?"

Dean wavered, but he could see the concession in his brother's eyes. His stomach cramped again, in pain, not nausea and Sam's felt his cracking resolve splinter even more. "It hurts," he whimpered, teeth clenched. "_Please_."

"No."

The one word was gentle in its delivery, but resoundingly heavy in his finality and the weight of it broke him. He wanted freedom. He wanted Jess. He wanted to tear something apart with his bare hands. He wanted the life that everyone else got to have and yet he was chained to evil. To a brother who was Heaven's answer when he was their problem.

Sam lashed out, angry and glad to be so. He tore at the cuffs, jerked against the pipe hard enough to shake the porcelain sink. He braced his bare feet on against the toilet and yanked. Not caring when the flesh split as it was threaded through the cuffs, metal slicing deep. Not giving a damn when Dean stumbled out of the room, stricken and horrified.

Anger was awesome. It had got him through ten Dean-less months. It made him stronger and fearless and evaporated all of endless pools of grief and pity and weakness.

He fought until he was drenched in sweat and his muscles twitched with fatigue and his vision blurred around the edges, and kept going.

Dean was back again, and all business. He avoided Sam's flailing legs with a well-timed swing of his own, and he squatting to sit on Sam's thighs and knees. His weight halted the kicking but didn't stop him. Sam narrowed his eyes, intent on the new goal of bucking him off.

"I knew I ate all that pie for something." Dean sat back, still straddling him, and waited him out. "Sam, I know you're in there. I'm right here. We'll get through this, I promise."

He didn't know how long it took, for the physical to override the nefarious part of his brain the demon blood had nurtured, but eventually it won out. It always would, which made him wonder why he was fighting something that was as a part of him completely. It was in the marrow of his bones, the cells of his body. He panted, dry-mouthed and depleted.

There was a cup at his lips, and he drank greedily. It wasn't the velvety thick elixir he craved, just water, but it was chalky and tasted medicinal.

Sam's eyes flickered to Dean's, who had apparently abandoned words, merely offered him a wink of encouragement.

_Valium. _

Ironically, Sam was super-sensitive to drug, and rarely took the heavy stuff. It wasn't long before neck muscles were jello-y, and the chemicals were numbing the anger and breathing life to pain, grief and unquenchable hunger.

-o-

Dean had died, had been tortured in this world and the one below, and somehow it didn't compare to seeing Sam suffer. It wasn't nearly as bad as withdrawal, but the ferocity was there. There was a despondency and a grief in his eyes that was new, and more vivid than even in the horrible days after Jess had died. Dean saw it now, glinting like a diamond, even when Sam was fading. He tore his gaze away from the lurid pain on Sam's face, and focused on his shackled hands. They were stained with the blood trickling from his wrists, opening and closing with helplessness. Dean didn't think before he angled his hand through over the curve of the pipe and grasped them.

Sam clung.

He inspected his wrists one-handed. They were torn, but fixable, and he was grateful for that. He needed to do more than watch as Sam grappled with the broad-scaled evil that had decided to make the Winchesters' torment their pet project. The frantic grip on his left hand slackened, fingers uncurled. Dean turned back to see Sam's eyes roll back and his body flop still. His own taut muscles released too, and he took a moment to breathe and to reassure himself the way he did Sam. It wasn't withdrawal—not that Dean had consciously thought that Sam had fallen off the wagon. It was still reassuring to have a confirmation. Drugs never worked during withdrawal, even Cas' magic fingers only bought him a few minutes of agitated slumber. Sam was completely out, heartbeat steadying.

He uncuffed one bloody hand, cleaned it, and slapped it on his own wrist. If Sam woke up unexpectedly, he'd have to go through Dean.

He made quick work of cleaning and bandaging Sam's frayed arms. He added an extra layer of padding to cushion the injuries from the cuffs. It was awkward to work attached to him in the joke of a bathroom, Sam's long limbs were an advantage. When he was done, Dean bundled him in a blanket from the bed and sat with his brother.

He stared at the picture Sam had given him. Six young kids with Sam in the middle—it looked like a college production of "Friends." They were all tangled together, hugging and squeezing, so happy Dean could almost hear the laughter. They all looked ridiculously free and innocent, like kids that age should. It was a Sam he didn't know and almost didn't recognize. He wore a simple tee-shirt, arms tanned a deep olive from the sun. His hair was short and styled and he had on reading glasses.

Sam always had a hunger for life beyond weapons and exorcisms. Dean had known that he would leave when he'd found him reading Dean's seventh grade English novels as an eight-year-old, and he'd hoped that they'd kill the demon so he could go on to do unfathomable things, amazing things. But Sam went anyway. He'd seen him a few times at school from a distance, and that kid was so lighthearted and open. He was joyful, and he'd looked like their mother then. Now, his default setting was rage. He barely spoke or read more than moldy books, mostly in latin. He even drank more than Dean. He was just like their father now. Sam deserved a life with a good dose of blissful ignorance. Instead he got a dead girlfriend and best friend, a demon blood addiction and a burned-out older brother.

Sam twitched, head lolling against the rim of the tub, and by the way his eyes moved under his lids, he had to be dreaming. Dean could only hope they were good ones.

-o-

_He stooped in front of the window air conditioner, hogging all of the cold air because he was sweating like a runner after a marathon. Jess was cooking, had been for hours, even though they were in the middle of a heatwave. In California. She'd come home with six bags of groceries, a five-page recipe and an expression of obtuse determination. He knew that look, and knew that the love of his life had an idea in her head. And she would not be moved._

_So he'd grabbed his books and parked on the floor in front of the flow of the air conditioner and studied until his stomach was rumbling and the temperature had climbed another ten degrees. He looked around the room of their apartment, at the borrowed furniture piled with boxes and bags of his possessions. Sam had never had so many things, or a place big enough to put them. It tickled him, but his most prized possession was tinkering in the kitchen shrouded in some obsession with domesticity._

_He heard the snapping of glass and Jess's curse seconds after. "Babe?" He asked tentatively._

_Jess slumped out into the living room, long hair twisted on top of her head. "We're gonna need some more capers."_

_"Jess…"_

_She shouldered her purse—the blue and silver one Sam had bought her at a fair—and headed towards the door. "I'm gonna go to the corner market. Be right back."_

_"It's…nearly eleven, and I'm starving. Does it really need capers? I don't even know what they are."_

_She crossed her arms, masking disappointment with irritation. "The recips says to add them." At Sam's sigh, she added softly, "I wanted the first dinner in our place to be perfect. And the recipe calls for capers. And I broke the jar." Her chin trembled, and it broke Sam's heart. She was trying to make a memory in their new home, and he loved her even more for it._

_He begrudgingly got up and grabbed his keys. They walked to the market hand-in-hand._

_If Sam had been paying attention, he would have seen the thugs entering the store and he could have gotten Jess out. But he was too focused on cheering a pouting girlfriend up to freakin' pay attention. It was scary how easy he could lose himself in this life. He tried to keep his reflexes sharp, thanks to an awesome boot camp class Brady had dragged him to._

_They didn't catch his attention until he saw them splitting up, too organized to be anything but bad. One at the front, two sweeping the aisles. All were in baggy pants and hoodies. His back straightened and the sudden rush of adrenaline and fear near short-circuited his heart. _This could not happen_. Jess was there, comparing bottles of capers in her pink tee shirt and hippie purse and she'd never so much as seen a gun._

_He moved silently but quickly, slapping a big hand over Jess' mouth and snatched her down as it began: somewhere to the far right, someone was destroying the store. At the front, there were harsh shouts and the ring of a cash register. Sam held a finger to his lips. Jess's ticked off confusion turned to disbelieving horror. Her blue eyes stretched impossibly wide as she blanched, from a healthy pink to a clammy white in the infinitesimal margin of a moment. Sam's heart shattered even as resolve kicked in. He would protect her with his life._

_They weren't leaving. Sam could see that they had the money in the security mirrors. Minutes ticked by and the vandalism escalated to threats against the terrified cashier. The other goons were merrily breaking glass and smashing liquor bottles. They were volatile and unpredictable and armed. And that's as bad as it got. Sam had to do something._

_Two aisles away, there was a rusty exit door looming at the end of a shadowed hall. He could get Jess out. He shifted, forcefully lifting Jess' head from where it was pressed against his shirt as if she wanted to burrow inside of him. Even though she was panting with fear, teething chattering beneath his hand, she looked at him beseechingly. Sam's eyes flickered pointedly to the hall and the gleaming exit sign there. Jess chanced a quick glance and focused on him again, shaking her head in frantic decline. Fear was paralyzing. Sam was been trained to run towards the danger when everyone else was told to flee. It would be up to him to get her through this unscathed._

_Sam nodded yes and slid against the floor, dragging her with him. Jess whimpered but followed, trusting him. They darted quickly, ducking into another aisle when one of the thugs in an Angels sweatshirt jogged by, laughing as he smashed and broke._

_It was a good move, though, because they were in the hardware aisle, and Sam didn't have to use his imagination to find weapons. He snagged a monkey wrench, and wished he could reach the crowbar ten feet away. When the coast was clear, Sam scurried into the hall, shoving Jess in front of him. The darkness offered a bit of cover but he didn't dare rise. He opted to crouch, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he turned the knob. It was a small blessing that the door wasn't locked. But it was old and rusty and still wouldn't open. He pushed Jess aside, standing up, throwing his weight at it with a measured blow, ignoring the clattering noise it made. There was a splitting creak and the door wobbled at the hinges. He took Jess' hand, and shoved again, sighing a little when it finally opened._

_The piercing alarm blared through the store. It was an emergency exit. Jess shrieked, clutching him again. "Sam!"_

_Sam was perilously close to panicking. It was Dean's voice in his head again, telling him what was important, and that he needed to focus, that kept him from plummeting over the brink. He wrenched his girlfriend out of his arms—which felt like tearing off a limb—and heaved her towards the door._

_It was blocked. Sam cursed and heaved and strained against it, but it wouldn't budge wider than the three inch berth._

_Sam had made a choice and it was the wrong one._

_Jess was shrill as she hyperventilated. Her cries sounding like breaking glass, and it sliced clear through him in an octave he'd never forget. "Sam! They're coming."_

_Sam was near tears himself did the only thing he could: tucked her in the corner and curled himself around her. People thought he was scrawny, but Sam was lean and tall and he could cover Jess completely. They huddled in the corner of a dark hall that tempted them with escape, all locked doors and no real exits. Time broke and moved impossibly fast. There was a pissed off kid, who reeked of weed and sweat, advancing on them. Sam forfeited their wallets, literally tore Jess' purse off of her. They were snatched from him. He saw his opening and took it._

_The kid was sloppy and untrained, and he didn't think because he whipped the wrench from under his arm and hit paydirt right on the kid's gun arm. The weapon clattered to the ground, and the fight was on. There was no such thing as fighting dirty, and Sam went for the eyes with a gouge and the soft tissues of the neck with a jab. He blocked two punches, landed a sloppy uppercut so hard he heard the teeth breaking. He was launching a knee to the ribs when he was clobbered in the face with what felt like a sledgehammer, a bone-crunching blow he'd felt vibrate down to his toes. He dropped like a rock and the beating continued. Two against one._

_The violence of the attack was senseless and Sam got lost in it. Like a civilian. There was blood in his eyes and fracturing pain in his ribs and guns in his face and he was taking it. Then a keening sob sliced through the haze in his head. Jess._

_"It's okay." He promised Jess as they kicked him. "It's o—"_

_The cotton of his collar was stretched taut, creating a shoddy yet effective noose. He worked for air until he released that he wasn't being strangled. He was being dragged. Away from Jess._

_"That bitch of yours is real hot. I'm gonna take care of you…then start in on her…"_

_The red he saw now definitely wasn't blood. Sam planted his feet, halting the slide against the floor with the squeak of his sneakers. His long arms groped blindly for any object on the shelves. He tried to grip something, anything, but he mostly raked the items to the floor. Finally, his hands closed on something hard—a Phillips' head screwdriver—and drove it into his captor's leg._

_There was a throaty howl of pain and a gunshot so close to him that it obliterated all sound in Sam's left ear and he felt the bullet whiz hotly passed his head and imbed itself in the floor below. The gunman never got a second chance to fire as Sam disarmed him with a chop to the wrist. It was another dogged brawl with teeth sinking into the meat of his palm, and his head slamming against the floor, but he eventually gripped cold steel. Immediately, the bigger robber backed away, hands up in surrender._

_Sam cocked it and his arm was defiantly still. He knew how to hunt. He'd killed nastier things than this that didn't threaten his lover, his life. But never human. The second of hesitation allowed him to see that the robber was just a kid, probably younger than Sam, but with eyes that spoke of hard years. Impossibly, Sam felt a flicker of camaraderie with the guy who'd attacked him._

_There were hands on his back and he jumped, unable to hear who'd been coming. He threw a look over his shoulder to see that it was Jess._

_She was shaking so hard she could barely stay upright, but digging in his pockets for the cell phone Sam to call 911._

_God, he loved her._

_The unseen thug stepped into the fray, arms filled with bags of cash. "Let's go, man. He ain't gonna shoot ya, bro. Let's go," was the watery voice in his right ear._

_"Leave the wallet and purse…"_

_Sam held firm, finger on the trigger. It was true he wouldn't kill them. He committed their faces to memory, down to the scar on the bigger man's face, and the monkey tattoo on the money-man's neck. They dropped their billfolds._

_"Go," Sam menaced._

_He retreated further to give them a wide berth to cross his path, but then closed herding him towards the exit. The genius of the bunch pulled the guy to his feet, hauling him back. Sam's gun arm never wavered. He was steady and unafraid. It felt weird to hold a gun after three years, a bit like the star quarterback lacing up his high school cleats. But the twenty-year-old was unnerved by the way his assailant stared him down, but they were retreating and Sam was advancing. It was a dance of warriors and Sam hadn't forgotten the steps. They were at the door Gimpy and Money Man bolted, trailing cash and change in his wake. But the guy who was seemed to be enjoying this, the one with the wild eyes and uncovered face, just smirked. Before he whipped out another gun and shot the cashier, who was pressed against the locked display of cigarettes, in the face._

_In the ugliest moment of his life, one that would have John Winchester devastatingly ashamed, Sam flinched at the shot and the warm splatter of the stranger's blood across his face, and he fired. It wasn't on purpose or in vengeance. Sam couldn't tell if the gun was swinging towards him. He was just scared and the gun had a hair-trigger._

_The bullet tore through the kid's chest and the shattered the glass behind it. He fell through it, choking on his own blood._

_Sam dropped the gun, skiddering away with a sob. Jess went with him, still clutching a bottle of capers._

_The police came. Sam was handcuffed. He sat in the back of the squad car and watched Jess, splattered in the red of Sam's blood and the blue of the squad car's flashing lights, and knew he'd brought this onto her._

_The police released him after four hours of questioning at the station. The detectives apologized with sincerity and gave Sam a ride to the hospital._

_The next morning, Sam packed and up and left the apartment, boarded a bus that motored him somewhere between California and Nevada._

_It was a backstep, one he'd made a few times while at Stanford. Slipping back into the comforts of his childhood, so he could let go of the façade a bit, so take a full breath. Jess was staying with her parents. They'd offered a place for Sam, but as luxurious as a two-million dollar estate in Brentwood was, it wasn't home. Home for Sam was a motel room feet away from an interstate with peeling wallpaper and rattling radiators._

_Home was Dean snoring in the next bed._

_Days passed in a Dantesque version of Hell. He cried. He paced. He recounted it over, knowing he wouldn't have done anything differently, and was repulsed by what that meant for the person he'd shot. He was nauseous with guilt, ill from the pain, and insomoniatic from anxiety. He killed a person, and while death sounded the same whether it be a werewolf or an angry kid from Oakland, Sam couldn't think about anything but the life he'd taken, the family he'd broken._

_He needed Dean. He needed the cynical, no-nonsense reassurance that always came with a hand on his back or a begrudging hug. He needed the back seat of the Impala and tattered quilt that had been everything from pillow to privacy curtain to tourniquet._

_The desperation settled for the thousandth time in two days. It was so fierce that he dove for the phone, dialed, finger hovering over the SEND button. He hadn't spoken to Dean since a few days after his birthday last year, but Sam knew he would come. Sam needed him to be there. He scrubbed his face clean, cleared his throat and pressed the button._

_He nearly jumped out of his skin at the loud knock on at the door. Sam snapped the phone shut. He opened the door with the chain still on. Despite everything, he wished he had a gun._

_It was just Brady with a bag of greasy food and root beer. He eyed him carefully, pulling his sunglasses down to gape at his battered face._

_Sam was a mess. His cheekbone was cracked and he hadn't bothered to ice it, so it was horribly swollen. Blood had stained the white of his iris, and his entire right side, from torso to toe, was one purpling contusion. Despite that, Sam's best friend entered, set the burgers on the table, sneering at the room in poorly hidden disgust. "Dude…my parents have a house in Big Bear and a penthouse in Vegas and you pick this dump?"_

_Sam ignored him, tucking into the burger. He couldn't remember the last time he ate._

_"You went AWOL, Samuel. Freaked me out."_

_"Payback's a bitch." He grunted, alluding to Brady's many benders. He was sober for the time being, and Sam was grateful._

_"Touché, dude, touché." Brady spread his coat over the empty bed and sat down on it. "I'd ask you how you were, but that's pretty clear."_

_"I killed someone, Brady, how would you be?"_

_"I'm sure I wouldn't be all bleeding heart over a guy who killed someone in front of me. But then again, you're you."_

_Sam shrugged and kept his mouth shut._

_"I do know this. Jess is fine, and said you went all Jason Bourne on them, took all three on. With a screwdriver. Who the hell does that?"_

_Sam sipped at the soda. "The guy raised by a widowed marine," he said bitterly. His eyes stung belatedly at the mention of his girlfriend. "How is she?"_

_"Terrified. Her boyfriend disappeared. After she was held at gunpoint."_

_Sam pushed away from the table, wiping the grease off his hands. Food made Dean feel better, but Sam just felt sick. The bites of burger were rocks in his stomach, and he had to concentrate on not throwing up as he paced, hobbling a little. "It was my fault. I…wasn't paying attention."_

_"Paying attention to what? You can't stop bad things from happening, Sam. If something wants to hurt someone, they just will. You fought back, and there's a gorgeous woman alive because of you."_

_He heard her screams, unbridled and blood-curdling, and felt dizzy and impotent. His knees buckled. Brady was at his side in a second, a strong shoulder buttressing him with borrowed strength. "Jesus, Sam. Do…do I need to call someone? You need…some water?" Brady's voice was too high, and it struck Sam as odd that Brady freaked._

_"…it's just the concussion." He assured as Brady led him to the bed. The pain was started to overwhelm the drugs._

_"Dude, I love you, but I'm not playing candystriper."_

_Sam was too busy not passing out to realize that Brady had left. Then the room smelled like honeysuckle and vanilla—a luscious aroma that was uniquely Jess. He lifted his head, and saw her standing in the doorway, haloed in light. She was pale and there was poorly controlled anger twisting her pretty face, but it faded away as she saw his face. She was kissing him, long and deep and soft. It probably should have hurt as both his lips were split and swollen, but it was curative, lovely. "They never touched me, Sam. Not once."_

_"I saw the bruises, Jess."_

_"They're from you."_

_"They never…"_

_Jess crouched in front of him, and smiled a bit. "Not once."_

_He was crying again, weak with relief. He pressed his forehead against hers. "Please don't think…that I'm a killer."_

_"Look at me, Sam. Look at me right now." Jess' voice was stern and she lifted his head gingerly. "You're not a killer. You're the man who stood between me and men with guns. You're the man who acted when anyone else would cower. You're my hero. And not in the Popeye, Prince Charming way, but the actual heroic way. You hear me?"_

_He did, damaged hearing and all._

_"But if something like that ever happens again, please cower."_

_He laughed wetly, and nodded. He kissed her lips, and uttered the phrase he'd been waiting twenty years to say. "Babe, let's go home."_


	4. Chapter 4

This entire story was revised on September 1st.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 4**

Time was meant nothing when Sam was in pain. Minutes stretched like taffy, gloppy and slow as his brother suffered even while sedated. He mumbled and fought, sometimes his muscles locked rigid, and he looked like he was screaming without sound. His fever seemed to fluctuate with his agitation. He was calm for the moment, but much cooler to the touch, weakly putting off heat like an old radiator. Dean turned more of his attention to the laptop, searching through county death records to confirm what the articles had already confirmed.

Dean looked at Sam's crumpled picture again, drawing a mental X through another face. Six happy kids. And so far, two tragic endings. The short guy in the upper right, sporting a blue polo and a haircut that had to be the consequence of a lost bet, had been killed by a drunk driver two years ago.

The girl to the left of Jess, with olive skin, blue-striped hair and an entire arm colored with tattoos, had disappeared for seven months, only surface at a crime scene of a slain Ohio family. She'd been convicted of the murders in 2007. A hunter half as experienced as Dean would know what prolonged demon possession looked like in police files and court docs. Dean still had two more people to cyber-track, but he set the laptop down on the floor and rubbed at the hand shackled to Sam. He didn't think he could handle another heart-shattering discovery.

And he knew Sam couldn't.

He wondered how much his brother could swallow and bear before it would stop or before Sam went insane. He wondered why he hadn't already.

Sam's head rolled against the tub, cracked lips muttering "Jess" and "killer" before Dean sighed, gently guiding the lolling head to his shoulder. He hummed a little, and forced himself to find comfort in Sam's breathing, however discordant it was. He twisted his hand in the cuffs so he could clutch Sam's bigger one.

Dean would finish the research and throw himself into getting Sam through each agonizing step, but for now, in a rare minute in a bathroom in East Nevada, Dean Winchester, hunter and mystery-solver, was perfectly fine with the unknown.

-o-

The research was done, and the outcome grisly. One was dead. One was a convicted murderer. One was in a mental institution. One was slashed and burned on the ceiling. One was a handcuffed to him, sedated.

But one was alive, healthy, successful. Her name was Elliyah Gray, and she ran a bakery in Portland.

Dean had found something to give Sam, and it felt like hope.

The heavy head on his shoulder wobbled a bit, and Dean cupped a hand around the forehead to check his temperature and keep it still. He looked down and caught a flicker of Sam smiling and felt the deepening of his breath.

Maybe, just maybe, they were out of the woods.

-o-

_Winchesters didn't get a lot of happy, so Sam knew when to grab a hold of the comet, and ride it as long as he could. He tried to remember everything about this particularly sweet slice of awesome—the sweat puckering at his hairline, his heart thumped merrily and his head felt light with anticipation. The stark sense of accomplishment and pride._

_Sam Winchester, prodigal son, former demon hunter, black sheep, had just secured his admission to any law school in the country with LSAT test scores of 174._

_Sam stared at the numbers, again, falling onto the stoop of his apartment. He couldn't believe his eyes, and blinked at the numbers as if they were a apparition. They never changed or faltered. It was there in black and white, ink and paper._

_He was going to be a lawyer._

_He wiped his eyes, laughing at little at the gigantic girl he was being on his front steps of his apartment. But he didn't bottle it up or shut it down because after three years of unwavering discipline and backbreaking work, he deserved it. Sam turned his face into the sun and let himself feel it, taste it, smell it._

_After a few beats, he stood up, paper clutched in his hand and ran up the three flights of stairs where he spent the next twenty minutes emailing, texting, and calling his friends._

_Tonight, they were going to party._

_Their tiny apartment vibrated with energy of Tuesday-night partygoers as summer still lingered in their veins and the weight of senior of year and big decisions loomed in too-near future. And Sam Winchester was dancing. In public. Not with his girlfriend who hadn't even bothered to text him back, but with Elliyah, his oldest friend at Stanford. She moved her hips in ways Sam couldn't comprehend, but the beat was inside him, possessing him and he was determined to figure it out. _

_Hours later, the pumping beats changed to soulful voices, and he found himself in the kitchen with Elliyah drinking ice cold water and dreaming of ivy-covered brick buildings with legendary libraries and halls steeped in history. Jess appeared, pushing open the back door. Her blue eyes cut to him sharply. And she smiled hard, showing teeth. Sam knew every smile she had, and this one was forced, plastic. There was fear in her eyes and an uncertainty that made Sam anxious. Jess twisted the plastic bag in her hand and pushed it behind her back. She mouthed sorry. Sam wasn't even disappointed that she didn't show, head fuzzily from jello shots and the very real prospect of a future that he let it go, merely grinning at her. They could celebrate later. Privately._

_"I'm so proud of you, Sam."_

_He felt electrified, more so than when he'd literally wept at the sight of his scores hours earlier, because he was finally becoming the man Jess deserved._

_He took the steps towards her, leaning down to kiss her lips, but she turned her head. Away from him. "We need to talk."_

_The candor in her voice was sobering. He blinked, pulling back to study her face and nodded immediately. He excused himself and let Jess lead him to the apartment's only bathroom._

_With the door shut, the two of them were locked in the intimate space of subway tile and tub. Sam felt oddly uncomfortable with the woman he eagerly and openly shared his life with. Then it dawned on him, a tiny epiphany. "You've been avoiding me."_

_He hadn't realized it until now. Jess had spent the weekend with her sister in Los Angeles and didn't return until Monday morning. Since then, she'd been studying in the living room when Sam went to bed and making coffee when he woke up for his run._

_"Yes," she rocked her head to the side, fat, honeyed curl obscuring her face. She was all nerves and Sam didn't like it._

_"You can talk to me. You don't have to hide." He sat at the sink, cutting the space between them. It was unsettling to see Jess fidget and succumb to anxiety. His girlfriend was fierce and fearless. She'd stood by him when he'd gone from mild-mannered college student to murderer. Everyone looked at him differently, like they weren't quite sure the face Sam wore was his true one, but Jess never did. Until now, which made Sam felt a little betrayed._

_She opened her mouth, made a few strangled noises, and clamped it shut. Her face twisted in disgust and she stomped her foot. "I'm so not this person," she gritted out, rubbing her forehead. Then she closed her eyes, took a breath and surged forward, "I got blacked out in class the other day…it's not a big deal, I'm fine," she rushed to explain when Sam stepped forward in concern. "Except I'm late…m-my period's late, Sam."_

_Sam blinked, stunned to silence, not comprehending the importance of…Sam grabbed the bag, tearing at the plastic. Inside were four pregnancy tests._

_There were few things that could rattle a Winchester, and babies were one of them. Sam-and-Jess babies. It was petrifying and impossible and the most beautiful thing Sam had never considered._

_"I heard about your scores and I know you want to be a lawyer more than anything, and…"_

_It was his turn to be lightheaded and queasy, and he was pretty sure his heart was going into overdrive. For a split second, Sam thought _he_ was going to pass out._

_"…my parents could help and I want to do this even if you don't."_

_"Wait…what? Jess…why wouldn't I want to…"_

_"You want to be a lawyer," she replied simply, her voice breaking. "You want Harvard…"_

_Sam scoffed and grabbed both of her shoulders. "I want a family, Jess. That's all I ever wanted. You know that."_

_"But law school…"_

_"Screw law school," Sam said earnestly, because it miraculously didn't matter. "If there's a baby, we'll work it out."_

_Jess laughed. "Is it strange that I want it…just a little?"_

_Sam kissed her forehead. "You'll be a wonderful mother."_

_They took all of the tests in a row of red Solo cups. Their heads were both spinning that they figured it was best to just use them all. Sam checked his watch. The next few minutes would be the longest of his life._

_"What now?" Jess asked. She was crying now, her face splotchy and wet. She had grown more emotional after the robbery._

_Sam took her hand and left the bathroom. There were only a smattering of people left, dancing in the candlelight of the living room. A slow song was playing, twinkling piano and the neon lilt of an electric guitar. They found each other easily, because there was a current that flowed between them as raw as lightning and as unique as a snowflake. In three minutes, Sam would find out if he would be a father. He knew he should be panicking or packing like Brady did when he had a scare, but Sam felt powerful and proud like a man on the brink of his dreams. He was going to be a lawyer. He was going to be a father. He was going to have a big house with curtains and a couch and a fridge stocked with food and an obnoxiously big swingset-playhouse-sandbox in the backyard._

_And if it wasn't meant to be, Sam would never forget these three minutes when he felt like an Olympian, a champion. These three minutes where he knew with vivid certainty that he could build his life. He could do anything. He could climb Everest. He could walk on water. He could save the world._

-o-

Sam had been as placid as the Pacific for hours. His fever had all but broken and Dean felt comfortable enough uncuffing them both. He left Sam in the bathroom, stepped out so he could call Bobby and get some air. He was breathing in the exhaust of the nearby freeway, the musk of approaching rain and the faint wisps of cigarette smoke from the bar across the parking lot when he heard a dark, keening that was primal and wild and all Sam. Dean nearly broke down the door before he remembered the key in his hand. In strobing seconds of motion, he was back in the bathroom, grappling with his brother who was writhing and seething and screaming in a way he'd never had before.

Despite his now roasting fever, Sam was still at full-adrenaline-powered strength, and Dean found himself with wondering if he would lose another fight with Sam. But he couldn't. He ignored it all, the screams and the chattering teeth, the tearing, laboring breaths and focused on the handcuffs. By the time he got one wrist cuffed, Dean's nose was bleeding and Sam's rage had imploded, attacking his own body. He bucked, jaw jutting upwards, head cracking against the back of the tub. His body was shuddering from pain and his eyes were rolling. Dean finished the cuffs, looping them around the trap, and hovered over Sam. "Sam, what's going on, tell me what's happening?"

His little brother only gurgled and choked, dead eyes staring at nothing. It was like a seizure and a heart attack and electrocution all at once. Dean stumbled back and off, too stricken to think. His mind was blank. He'd never left him during Sam's second withdrawal, and this had never happened. It had been horrible and torturous, but when the worst had passed, when the fever had broken, Sam had gotten better.

This was erratic ups and downs, peaks and valleys. He wiped his at his trickling nose and tried to gameplan. He had to deal with what he could. Dean figured he could tackle the fever with compresses.

He snatched the towels off the rack, drenching them with cool water when Sam's body snapped again. He was fighting, gasping words like "baby" and "lawyer" and "friend."

The sink was shaking and Dean's legs were swept out from under him. He hit the porcelain floor hard and scrambled away as the heavy sink shifted and the trap broke in puff of plaster and screws.

It hit him then as dirty water spilled all over the floor, and Sam screamed again, Dean had heard that sound before. It was that of a parent who'd lost a child; a husband who'd lost a wife; a person facing the sobering certainty of their own demise. And he'd heard it from Sam, too.

In Jess' room when the ceiling blossoming in lurid flames.

In the hallway at the hospital when Sam had found their father.

In the house in Indiana just before the hellhounds began slashing and tearing.

It was grief, honest-to-goodness human emotion piggybacking on that damned demon blood to become the second monster they'd have to battle that night. And it was killing his little brother.

Sam had changed with each loss, and now he was twisting and gnarling with pain like the roots of a stubborn oak. Dean had too, but while his time in Hell had hardened his little brother, Dean, the best repressor and ignored in the business, suddenly felt _everything_. Sam's default setting was anger, had been for months, and he wasn't dealing or processing or expressing. The emotions were festering, dark and nasty, like the things in hell.

When Dean subdued Sam this time, it wasn't with unforgiving grips to overpower, it was with soft touches. He grabbed at Sam's flailing arms, still cuffed and bleeding again, and ducked through them. He bracketed his face with both hands and waited until he could grab his eyes.

"Sam, you hear me? I need you to focus on my voice and listen to me. You have to stop fighting this. Let it out."

Sam snarled and his eyes flashed.

"Brady is dead. He was dead years ago, man."

The handcuffs pulled, pinching Dean's neck, jerked him forward. Sam's blood was sluicing down his neck. Dean wrapped his arms around Sam and spoke into his ear, the words cutting him more than the metal. "Jessica is dead. The demon in Brady killed her because of what it would do to you. Brady was killed because of how close he was to you. You can't hide from this."

Sam's skin was scalding him, but and he fought harder when his eyes cut to Dean's face. "The life you had back then is gone, Sam. You are never going to get that back. And I'm so sorry about that."

Dean wouldn't have called it surrender, because that implied weakness and defeat. When something in Sam broke through, the demonic fight drained out of him, leaving nothing but raw pants and residual fever. They increased until he was crying, heaving and shaking and making noises so intense that it brought the elder Winchester to tears. This pain would never go away; it would just change and move, fade a bit then swell. It was Sam who had adjust to it, like a scar on the heart.

"I got you, Sam. I'm right here. I know how much you wanted a real life and how much you lost. But I'm still here."

There were no more words for a long time just Sam's agonizing sobs and the crackle of rain.


	5. Chapter 5

I got little stuck when my planned ending didn't coincide with the mythology of the show, and I have a bit of trouble hitting the edit button. Thus, there will be one more part after this one. And I'm so freakin' excited about it and it's almost done! Please let me know what you think! Good or bad (if bad, please be constructive. "You suck" simply won't help, LOL).

Thanks so much for your patience and support! So excited that the new season starts in less than a month!

_This entire story was revised on September 1st._

**

* * *

****Chapter 5**

Dean wouldn't let him sleep.

Sam wanted it so much, he may have sobbed for it. He was a live wire, all firing synapses and emotion and pain coursing through him like a current. It hurt in inescapable ways, physical pain co-mingling with psychological. It left him open and raw and bleeding in a dirty motel room filled with rock salt and reminders. All he wanted was Jessica, the California beach, and the orange tree outside her apartment where they had their first kiss. The apartment where they had their last dance. Sam had said vows, brushing kisses against her shoulder. He'd whispered them in her ear and she did the same with no hesitation.

The love was there, as fierce and passionate as it had ever been and he needed her. Maybe he could slit his throat, go back to Heaven and relive it all. He'd take the terrible memories over this purgatory of guilt-ridden longing. He'd re-do the nasty fights and the aftermath of the robbery with a smile. Or maybe they could break away like Ash taught them, and could build an afterlife together.

But even Heaven was a disgraceful tool of torment.

And that left Sam with nothing but the scars of his sins and the screaming of a tortured soul. That left him just wanted to sleep it all away. He curled on his side with slow deliberate movements, because anything more would break him like the shell of an egg.

He was crying again, entire body taut with it, but didn't have the energy to do more than leak and sniffle and tremble. Sam closed his stinging eyes and pressed his face in the cotton of the pillow. Dean was there, though, talking incessantly, poking him, forcing him to respond.

Sam wondered just how long he'd ignored him.

"Sam, you gotta eat, dude. How else are you going to keep your membership to the Ginormo Club?"

Dean's voice was a bewildering mix of sadness and desperate optimism, and even that hurt too.

A lifetime of tragedy that had stolen little pieces of him had finally taken it all, left him hollowed out, sunken in. Not amount of food or drink would nourish him. No medicine was strong enough to heal him. Because it wasn't caused by a bacteria or a virus or evil or demon blood, it was all him. He was the poison and the curse. He was the nefarious disease that had been armed and unleashed.

"Sammy, please. I've been here before, and it seems impossible. But it's not, Sam, I promise it's not. We'll figure it out."

He might have twitched.

Dean encouraged. "I'm stubborn, little brother. I can wait. I'm not moving. I'm not leaving. I'm not saying yes."

Dean's voice sounded clearer, not so detached or garbled. The blanket was scratchy and his pillowcase was damp and hot, forcing Sam to lift his face a little, turning his head to pull in a full, albeit, hiccupping breath. He heard Dean gasp and his eyes flickered to him in reflex. Dean looked a smidgen better than some of the corpses they dug up, but his it lit up like Christmas when he saw Sam stir, and life filtered into his face.

"You hungry?"

Sam blinked, and smelled cookies—the heavy lilt of pecans, the salt of caramel…

-5-

_He stormed through campus, taking his anger out on doors and elevator buttons and the pavement beneath him. The night air was sweet and thankfully free of the smell of alcohol and weed, even though the musk of the latter clung to his clothes. _

_Brady and his friends were taking the college experience much too seriously, rolling joints, blasting music and drinking on a Tuesday night. They could afford to do that because they all had bottomless bank accounts, powerful parents and a life free of death and grave-digging and monsters. While Sam had nothing but a bed of lies, twelve bucks in his pocket and a scholarship he sacrificed his family to keep. Thus, Sam's schedule was disciplined, regimented. He couldn't stray from it and risk failing his first round of midterms and losing his scholarship. He'd just worked four hours at the campus bookstore, and he had time for a forty-five minute nap, and three good hours of studying. _

_But who could sleep when his room had been transformed into frat central and he was irritable from hunger as he hadn't eaten in a day? Sam stalked the dark campus, unsure of where to go. The aroma of salted French fries and spicy tacos would from the student union would just torture him. The library's never closed, but thanks to a big brother with a love for all things rock, Sam hadn't quite learned how to study in silence. _

_The street tilted at a startling angle, and sending an eighteen-year-old Sam flailing. He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose to regain his equilibrium, and prioritized food over studying. _

_Sam had never had much and never needed it. He'd survived for nearly two decades on meager funds and had done pretty well on his own at Stanford. But life was never predictable. So he had to chuckle when a never-ending growth spurt hit mere weeks after leaving home. He spent most of his mad money trying to keep himself in clothes that fit and Icy Hot for his joints. He'd run out of money for food the day before and hadn't had anything since. Every fiber within him wanted to call Dean, but he hadn't yet, Winchester stubbornness winning over logic and need. His eyes watered a bit as he thought of Dean, and his resilience. _

_He'd embody that. Sam headed off-campus to a grocery store, prepared to lift a few essentials to last him until payday. He ignored the irony of a shoplifting law student as his pace increased._

_Sam jogged down the row of houses and small buildings when the smell hit him, a salty lilt of butter and chocolate. He pressed a hand over his stomach as it growled and rumbled hungrily. It was so intoxicating that his stride slowed and he squinted, trying to find the source. The streetlights flickered, illuminating a pan, sitting on the open sill of a second-story window, blue curtains wafting outwards._

_In a haze of hunger and desperation, Sam canted it head back as far as it would go, and thought of scaling the building. _

"_You can just ask if you want some." A familiar voice cut through the warm night. "Might be safer than climbing the house to steal them."_

_He could see a snatch of feminine features in the lowlight: glinting, hematite-gray eyes, dark hair billowing in loose waves, and a half smile on full lips. "Elliyah," Sam smiled. _

_They were both first-generation scholarship kids in school of old-money legacies and clung to each other, bonding over commonalities more than chemistry. She was one of those unshakable optimists that hunters decidedly were not. It was annoying as it was refreshing. Sam was pretty sure Dean would hate her. _

_Before he could respond, he was being pulled into the duplex, up the narrow staircase and into the white and cornflower kitchen with mismatched, yard sale chairs. She sat the pan in front of him and cut a bar. He didn't know what it was, and didn't care. It was decadent and rich and amazing. _

_He'd eaten almost the pan, chocolate smudging his cheeks, before he looked up in sated embarrassment as his blood sugar rose and the lightheadedness passed. "That was fantastic. Thank you." _

_Sam wondered how he hadn't noticed that her kitchen was filled with baked goods from cinnamon rolls to muffins to plates to trays of unfrosted cupcakes. He wondered if he was dreaming. "Charity bake sale," she explained. _

_She waved her arm in invitation to finish the rest of the bars, and Sam found a special kind of love for generosity. Even if the smile she wore was forced. "Is everything okay?" _

_She shrugged a lean shoulder, pulling one knee up to rest her chin on it. Without the strumming energy and laughter, her eyes were etched in a sadness that seemed to echo within him in unsettling ways. "Just homesick." _

_Sam nodded with instant understanding. He got lonely a lot, and exhausted from the lies and charade. School was wonderful, but he was isolating and harder than he ever feared. There were days when it didn't feel like it was worth the loss of Dean and Dad. But he'd only been there for three months, and promised himself it would get better. Suddenly, studying didn't seem too urgent, or too alone. Elliyah's presence filled up the room, illuminated some of the darkness._

"_Did you finish baking for your charity thing? I could…um, keep you company?" _

_Her eyebrows rose and he swore he could feel the despair ebb, like the sun emerging from stormclouds. "No, you're gonna help me!" _

"_Elliyah, I can't bake. I can't even make microwave popcorn." _

_She was tugging on his arm again, like a little sister he'd never had and probably never wanted. But Sam found himself hiding a smile and feigning annoyance as she tied an apron around his narrow hips and made him wash his hands. She showed him the basics of cookie making—cracking eggs, sifting flour. And they created a new kind of cookie with Sam dumping in whatever he wanted—toffee chips, chocolate chips and pecans and cinnamon. It was wholesome fun. And he didn't think about Dean or scholarships or estranged fathers or hunger for hours. She'd called them…_

-5-

"…Monkey Bars."

Dean's eyes sparkled, and he sputtered, speechless for a rare moment in his life. "What? Sam, I'll get you whatever you want…what's a Monkey Bar?"

Sam was flailing in despair that had soiled and bloodied an era in his short life that he was the most proud of. "They're all dead, aren't they, my friends?" The question was a raw whisper, dripping with inevitably.

Even through blurry vision, Dean didn't look as gutted as he normally did when preparing to deliver bad news. Still, Sam didn't dare hope.

His brother brushed away his sweaty hair, wincing at the fever there. "No, Sam. Elliyah's alive. She's got a good life. Thanks to those screwy spacebooks and myfaces, I saw her pics of her new couch and her dog. His name's Rufus."

The relief was like a punch, a breathless crack to his system. He closed his eyes, muttering expression of gratitude because prayers, he knew, would fall on the deaf ears of an indifferent power. He'd bonded with Elliyah, the night they'd baked until the morning, and she showed him he could do things with his hands other than kill monsters and dig graves. He could make cookies and pastries, brown hamburgers, fix lightbulbs, paint walls. He could create, not kill. Before Jess, they bonded in that blue kitchen over dinners and take out to vent about school or how they missed home.

Rough hands slid under his neck and lifted before a glass was placed at his lips. Sam sipped reflexively, toes curling at the cool glide down his throat.

"How are you feelin', kid? Is it gone?"

Sam closed his eyes at the memory of unfettered desperation and seething anger. His muscles hummed with a tight pain. His throat felt as if it'd been massaged with sandpaper. His head felt studded with nails, spiked with pain. Mercilessly, there was no pull for demon blood, no nefarious need to kill or maim.

A shock of cold folded over his brow and Sam frowned, forcing his eyes open as Dean adjusted the soggy compress. "How long?" He asked. It felt as he had been gone, lost in a sickness of his own making, for years. Dean looked as if he'd been nursing him through it for just as long.

"It's almost three. You've been out of it for hours, Sammy."

He couldn't find the energy to be surprised. Not even a day since he'd killed the thing wearing his best friend. The demon that killed Jessica. He wanted distance from it the look in Brady's eyes as he smugly talked about burning his lover on the ceiling like it was a corporate takeover. The thing had Brady's arrogance and flair. He wondered what Jess had felt or thought when she saw his true face. If she had time to cry or if she called out for him.

He reached out. Knowing Dean was still there, and grabbed his brother's arm, anchoring himself to the present. "Can you…do me a favor?"

"I'm not cleaning up the bathroom," Dean taunted, wearily.

He would have laughed if he could. Dean eyed him critically, and as if he knew what Sam was going to ask. He refilled the ice buckets, got him a bottle of water, folded his cell phone into his hand, tucked a gun under his pillow and left, locking the door behind him.

Sam settled into the silence, the solitude of his morose reality. And truly began to grieve.

-5-

Dean folded over the steering wheel, letting the jumping vibrations of the Impala ground him. After a long minute of recharging, he threw the car in gear, peeled out of the parking lot, and headed out to find Elliyah Gray.


	6. Chapter 6

Hi, y'all! This story has been kicking my ass more than I'd like to admit, but I wanted to get Chapter 6 posted in honor of Season 6. I'm so incredibly excited. I actually love this chapter, and I hope that you do to. Please let me know what you think!

* * *

**Chapter 6**

Divine Desserts was located in a strip mall on the outskirts of downtown Portland. Dean sat in the Impala for hours, arriving just in time for the evening rush that actually had people standing in a line that snaked out of the restaurant and in front of the Laundromat next door. By the time the lightning bugs buzzed through misty twilight, the crowd was gone, and Dean watched Elliyah through the windows as she cleaned the tables, swept the floor and removed wilted flowers from the bud vases on the tables. "This is a bad idea, Dean," he mumbled with a shake of the head.

He drew in a breath, poured Holy Water in one of his battered travelmugs and headed inside.

There were few things that made Dean's knees quiver with appreciation: the first sip of dark roasted coffee, the feel of his favorite gun in his hands, the satisfaction of surviving a hunt all limbs intact, and the hot, buttery, sweet aroma of handmade pastries.

His stomach grumbled at the sight of mini-pies, huge cupcakes lemon bars, oversized cookies and even freakin' croissants seductively lit in the glass case.

"We're closing in five, sir." Elliyah distractedly announced as she walked in front of Dean with a tray of dirty dishes.

"I just need a few minutes of your time." He said as she washed her hands, her back to him.

When Sam's old friend finally wheeled around to face him, she was an older, more worn image of the picture tucked in his jacket pocket. The hair that was in shiny, softly curled in the picture was now an odd amalgamation of limp and frizzy, bundled in a messy bun that only seemed to look good on lithe actresses in the movies. Her brown skin was wan and stale, and the darker crescents beneath her striking eyes made her look far older than her twenty-seven years.

Dean knew effects of trauma when he saw it.

The bakery, however, was an explosion of color found in the framed art, the hand-painted, mismatched chairs at and the electric blue accent wall.

Dean's eyes flared as he saw a row of gigantic cookies, the Monkey Bars Sam had requested. "Can I get the rest of those?"

"No problem."

Dean scanned the walls, noticing the Stanford degrees. "You went to Stanford, huh?"

Elliyah's dark silver eyes flickered to his. "Yeah, I graduated a few years ago."

"What was your major? Culinary…something?" He smiled winningly.

"Pre-law."

"Really," Dean marveled. "Will I get sued if I don't like the bearclaws?"

She laughed lightly, "Depends on how local you are about it."

"How'd you become a baker? Seems like quite a jump."

Elliyah's eyes squinted a bit distrustfully. "A stormcloud of tragedy hung around. And I learned that life was too short to do something you didn't want die doing. A month later, I'd raised enough to buy this place."

Dean's heart stirred in agreement. "Good way to live."

"You didn't come here for cookies, did you?" She asked with shrewd smirk.

He was impressed and not at all surprised that this woman, all innocent and sweet, was perceptively intelligent. No wonder Sam liked her. Dean reached over and plucked a cookie from the pink bakery box. He bit into it, sighing at the buttery sweetness. "Hear the cookies are damn good. And I wanted to ask you some questions. About…Sam Winchester."

Elliyah's face tightened, eyes darkened. Dean recognized a possible stonewall when he saw it. He floundered trying to backpedal, but saw her line of sight flicker beyond him. He turned slightly, looking at the bulletin board on the far wall. He immediately focused on the missing poster, Sam's Stanford ID photo in the center.

Dean's cheeks flushed with warmth. It wasn't surprising how quickly people fell in love with his gigantic emo brother, what with the broad shoulders and soulful eyes, but it always touched Dean to see it.

"I hired a P.I. years ago to find him. And it cost me five grand to find out that he died in an explosion of an FBI helicopter. That my friend liked it dig up graves and play with dead bodies."

But what broke his heart was the knowledge that that Sammy—the fresh-faced, pathologically optimistic kid—was indeed dead, had perished along with Dean.

Dean's jaw set and his nostrils flared at Sam's legacy in the eyes of his once beloved legal system. "That guy was a hack."

The small face in front of him softened just a bit at the assumption. "That's what I thought. I demanded my money back, but…he had court docs…" She made a move, leaning forward to swipe a stack of napkins from the holder and Dean took his chance, feigning a stumble that knocked over his travel cup and dislodged its unsecured lid.

The holy water sloshed onto Elliyah's wrist. She flinched, shaking the water off. "Oh I'm sorry! This cheap piece of crap…you paid twenty bucks for these damn things and they break in two weeks." He grabbed some napkins and blotted away the wetness, noticing her tattoo on the inside of her arm, just below the elbow and her lack of demonic hissing or beetle black eyes. Human, then.

"When was the last time you saw Sam?"

"Um, it was years ago. Before his girlfriend died. I was at my brother's for Halloween with my nieces. He'd even loaned me the last fifty dollars for my plane ticket. By the time I could get back, she was dead and he'd taken off with his brother. I emailed him and called him but I only got a short 'I'm fine' voicemail a month later. Haven't heard from him since." The words rolled off her tongue with such fluidity, they had to be practiced or even rehearsed.

She stepped away from the counter, throwing more items into the box. "I'm not the first person who's asked you about Sam, am I?"

Elliyah scoffed with a shake of her head. "You're not even the scariest, but I'd still really appreciate it if you left." She thrust the sealed box at him. "Free of charge."

Dean nodded, feeling utterly unfulfilled. He wasn't quite sure what he'd come for, but he knew he hadn't gotten it. He smiled his thanks, and took the pastries with him, hoping Sam would find some nostalgic comfort in the giant cookies.

He pushed through the doors and flung the door to the Impala open with an exasperated huff.

He didn't hear anything but the twinkle of the bell above the door. He wheeled around to see Elliyah staring at his car, her lines gleaming an iridescent black in the sodium streetlights. "That your car?"

Dean grinned for what felt like the first time in months. "That's my baby, yup."

There was a chilling silence before she breathed, "You're Sam's brother, aren't you?"

Dean lifted his eyebrows, momentarily stunned, but never let the rouse slip, "Lady, I'm just a guy on a case." He dropped his voice, edging it closer to a dangerousness he'd hoped would back her off.

Then he saw the Louisville Slugger.

She swung it up and twisted it around with a grace that said she knew what she was doing. Dean, fearing an attack, arced backwards, upper body twisting away.

He wasn't, however, expecting her to assault _his car_.

The clang of wooden bat crumpling the car he'd rebuilt with his own hands, his home, reverberated through him like a physical blow. Elliyah's was yelling in that hysterical, shrill, blood-curdling way girls can when they're angry enough or hurt enough.

"You're Dean, right? Sam showed me a picture of you once when you were kids. You're older, but the eyes are the same. And the prettiness is still there."

Dean caught her arm on the second upswing and with an angled twist he managed to disarm her without breaking her wrist. The offending bat clattered to the ground. "What the hell, lady? Back off!" Dean lifted her enough to get her out of striking distance of his car. "Oh, pretty is for Barbies and rainbows. _I am not pretty_!"

But Ellyiah was rapt and too far gone. "That's all he talked about, especially when he was sad or drunk—his family's 1967 Chevy Impala, black and chrome! His brother always wore a leather jacket, and had a…" The girl was irate and squirrely. She slipped Dean's hold, fingers tearing at his flannel shirts.

A button popped off, the pocket tore. Dean slapped at her hands, quickly noting the irony of him trying to get a woman off of him. It wasn't there, he wanted to tell her. The amulet was in a trashcan a thousand miles away. He gripped her spindly wrists again, trying to firmly pull her off.

But Elliyah was beyond listening, "Sam told me the story once. You…spent the summer in—what was the name?—Blue Earth, and he hit you with a baseball, cracked your collarbone. He said there was an actual dent in it…"

This woman's pain, created by the love she had of his brother, sliced through his barriers like a knife through a warmed piece of pie. Sorrow curled with desperate hope was visceral, pervasive. Dean's movements changed. He wasn't fending her off anymore. He rubbed her back roughly, other arm curling around her to pull her to him. "It's not there, Elliyah." He couldn't tell her that all of his old injuries had been erased when he was pulled from hell. There were some that he missed.

"It doesn't make sense…th-that Sam, who helped old ladies across the street, walked me home from my night classes, would do any of those disgusting things. His death in some helicopter explosion doesn't make sense. Him committing a crime—any kind of crime—_doesn't make sense._ Sam loved the law and he loved his life. You came for my answers, but I need some too. Just one thing, just tell me something…please.."

"I know, I'm sorry." If Dean's granite resolve was cracking before, it splintered severely when Elliyah started clutching and pleading.

She fisted the leather of his jacket until it squeaked. "I'm losing my mind here. Everyone's gone or dead and I need to make sense of it. Please t-tell me something that makes sense."

Dean laughed bitterly, because no explanation he could offer would make sense. But there had been too many times when he thought Sam had been missing or abducted and the uncertainty if he was dead or alive had been excruciating. He thought about those unbearable days in Cold Oak, and the impossible realization of Sam's death dragging him into his own Hell a year before he fell into the pit. He understood Elliyah's despair and her pain—connections with the outside world were always messy, and this poor girl had endured lifetimes of tragedy. Dean also couldn't stand what had happened to his good-natured brother's legal name. In the eyes of Sam's beloved law, he was a murdering psychopath who fondled corpses and died in an explosion in some backwater, hick town.

At his stubborn silence, Elliyah twisted away from him with a growl of disgust and started into the storefront.

Dean took a step towards her, following her into the store. He leaned the bat in the nearest corner.

"Go away." Elliyah menaced. She was wiping her cheeks with napkins, braced against the counter.

"Um, I never introduced myself," he shook out. Elliyah turned towards him. He extended his right arm for effect. "The name's Dean…Dean Winchester."

Her hands were shaking and her eyes were glittering. She shook his hand a little warily, but he could see it in her piercing eyes, the years of faith in her friend finally being confirmed. "Elliyah Gray. I've heard a lot about you."

Dean didn't know where to go from there. He'd never come here to out Sam to anyone, because their lives were nothing more than escaping one disaster only to fall into another. He felt sick, knowing that he probably put her in danger.

She seemed stupefied and awed. A beat later, she was all seriousness. "I need proof."

Dean found himself taking out his newest phone, scrolling through a few screens. He handed it back to her, a recent picture he'd snapped of Sam during one of his rare good moods. He'd been a little giddy and singing along to Queen in the car, instead of his usual slouch and scowl.

Elliyah held the phone like it was a precious thing, and smiled tearfully at the picture before passing it back. She closed her eyes, and lifting her face to the light, savoring the moment she'd waited five years for.

-6-

Sam tried to clean up the mess of the bathroom, but he felt dim-witted and drunk. The craving—grief-borne or not—had sapped his strength, both mentally and physically. He gingerly sank to his knees and tried to soak up the muddy water with the thread-bare motel towels. He was sure there was a better way to do this, but he didn't have the energy to figure it out. He simply needed to keep his hands busy. When most of the water was absorbed, he plunked the sodden towels in the tub. He then focused on fixing the leaking sink trap.

His head hurt. His ashen skin was peppered with goosebumps while he was flushed and warm. But more than that, his soul ached. While his body was strong and miraculously healed after ghastly beatings and horrific torture, it was his spirit that held all of the scars and darkness. The elaborateness of it all—being poisoned tainted with demon blood as an infant, being followed his entire life, being introduced to Jess for the sole purpose of taking her away years later—was more than he could handle.

So Sam focused on folding his supersized frame beneath the broken sink and painstakingly screwing in the screws with a flimsy butterknife and desperation. Not the memories of Jess bouncing around in his head, her golden laugh intertwined with her strangled, dying breaths. Not the feel of her nails scratching his skin of his back in a way that drove him crazy.

Not the fact that he got her killed. That he'd brought Satan himself topside. That he was a curse upon the world.

The lurching wet sound that reached his ears was pathetic and sickly, and it took a moment of Sam watching his suddenly numb hands tremble to realize that it was coming from him. He bent forward, gripping the edge of the tub, breathless from the smothering solitude.

He'd wanted Dean to leave, so he could freak out and panic just as he was now, but now he just wanted him back. So he could tell him that they would figure out, reassure him that he wasn't the plague, personified. It was lies, Sam knew, but spun from Dean's silver tongue and with his brother's trademark fierceness, even Sam could believe it for a few blissful days.

Just as his chest tightened, ribs seemingly locking to pop his lungs like balloons, he heard the powerful growl of the Impala pulling up. The butterknife clattered to the floor and he staggered out of the bathroom, barefoot and shirtless. The noose around his chest eased slightly, anxiety attack hopefully averted by the simple sound of Dean's car and the proximity it meant.

Sam raked his fingers through his hair and wiped his eyes and scrambled for a shirt, praying he didn't look as miserable as he felt. Dean entered the motel room, looking uncharacteristically timid. He relaxed by mere margins when he saw Sam standing on his own power. "You're up, that's great. How are you feeling?"

Sam leveled him with a dark look, because there really weren't words. Dean laughed bitterly and nodded. He advanced closer, averting his eyes. He pressed a cool hand to Sam's forehead. "Fever's hangin' on, huh?"

"I'm glad you're back." He confessed.

Dean smiled a little, but it died quickly. Green eyes finally settled on him without wavering an instant later. "I wouldn't be so sure about that."

Sam frowned, too exhausted to figure out why Dean seemed so _off_.

He noticed the pink bakery box shoved behind Dean's back. His older brother relinquished the box. The smell assaulted his memory more than his hunger even before the box was open. Inside, nestled next to pristinely frosted éclairs and cupcakes were Monkey Bars. Impossibly, his stomach growled. "You didn't? Dean, when I said I wanted those…I didn't mean to literally." He sat down on the bed, biting into a sun-warmed cookie. It was like devouring a bit of the past, and the most decadent thing he'd ever eaten. "Thanks, Dean, really."

Dean paced the length of the room. "There's no need for that," he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

"What's wrong with you? Did you mainline a barrell of coffee or something? You're…twitchy."

Dean shook his head and tugged at his ear. "Sometimes, ya know, women they have these eyes and they like stare through you, and…it's worse than the whole demonic paralysis thing, you know?"

Sam's eyebrows knitted together as he started in on another cookie, fingers smeared with chocolate. "When was the last time you slept?"

"I'm not cracking up…just…pissed off for being soft."

He barked a laugh. "You're a lot of things, Dean, but 'soft' is definitely not one of..."

He heard the unmistakable squeak of the Impala's heavy door and slammed shut a second later. Sam head jerked to Dean. The odd behavior instantly made sense. Sam hadn't connected the very obvious dots, thanks to his fever-addled brain. Getting the cookies meant going IN the bakery. Going in the bakery meant direct contact with a woman Sam knew to be intelligent, perceptive and intensely emotional. "What did you do, Dean?" Sam was on his feet before he realized it, eyes crackling with anger.

Dean Winchester actually blanched, sidestepping the worst of Sam's rage. "Calm down, Sam. Please."

"WHAT DID YOU DO?"

There was a quiet knock on the door, knuckles instead of curled fist. It was a woman. Sam and Dean's gaze both snapped from each other to the door and back again. Before the reality of it crashlanded into Sam like a meteor. His breath was racheted out of him like bellow at the thought of Elliyah seeing Sam, the addict; Sam, the killer, Sam, the freak. He was sweating again, little crystals of ice working through his pores.

"Please tell me you didn't. No, Dean. No, no, no…"

Dean stood in front of him, gripping his arms by the elbows, holding him up more than he'd expected. "Look at me, Sam. Look right here," Sam chanced it. Dean's face was honest and unabashedly compassionate. "She was…driving herself crazy. She'd hired investigators to find you. She…couldn't let it die. She everyone too, Sammy. Everyone. And…she's pretty freakin' smart."

Sam's managed a weak laugh. "How long did it take her to figure it out?"

"Like ten minutes…my own car sold me out," Dean groused. "Now, can I get the door?"

"No," Sam whispered, but stood back. He pushed Dean towards it. He stepped back into the ruined bathroom to make good use of some mouthwash, brush his sleep-mussed hair, change his shirt, and huff out the last of his anxiety.

When she crossed the threshold, Dean's bulk was blocking his view, but he was talking to Elliyah sweetly, without an ounce of that schmaltzy baritone he used to flirt, which meant he actually liked her. But then he turned slightly, Elliyah arched back and around him.

Sam's heart catapulted to frantic speeds, but it wasn't panic or fear or grief as he took in her older, but still beautiful face. It felt something akin to happiness and excitement and joy. Sam's life had changed, it had spiraled out of control and he'd been dragged down with it, and he felt like he'd been branded with his sins, that she could see everything he'd become, and all that he wasn't. But Elliyah Gray never recoiled in terror. She was laughing, tears pouring down her cheeks. That sound was achingly familiar and somehow awakened that eighteen-year-old dreamer with a hunger for life. It tapped into the Sam Winchester that had aced tests, made friends, and fell in love. In a blur of movement, Elliyah was in his arms, squeezing her tiny frame until he swore he felt her back crack.

Her feet were swinging merrily.

Dean pretended his own eyes were buzzing at the reunion, and once again, slipped out of the room unnoticed.


	7. Chapter 7

Finally! I'm done. I'm not going to say too much about the end of this story except that I envisioned an ending when I first started writing the story isn't here, and I'm so happy with what I do with it, because it's a little different and utterly me. I will also say that I'm nervous about the response. Please be honest and speak up, let me know what you think. They're might be a little epilogue coming later, but consider this complete.

Reviews are love.

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and favorited and alerted this story. It was a challenge and blast to write!

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 7**

They were on the move again, aimlessly heading north.

Sam had only submitted himself to the backseat when it was absolutely necessary, aftermath of a vision, a horrifically bloody injury, a pathetic way to distance himself from Dean when he was mad at him. But Elliyah had climbed in the back, and looked at him expectantly and he found himself, folding the seat forward and following her. Now, they sat in silence, feet apart, unsure of what to say, both acting as if the blurring construction road cones were more fascinating than their undeniably surreal reunion.

Sam couldn't think of anything to say, which was funny, because he remembered a time when they'd talk for hours.

-7-

_Restlessness tugged at his skin and the lids of his eyes, and Sam found himself once again staring at the over-painted popcorn ceiling of their bedroom. He shifted with a whimper of defeat before sitting up and easing out of bed. Jess was asleep next to him. He nuzzled her neck, pressed kisses to the warm skin there. He threw on a sweatshirt, his battered sneakers and stretched in the shadows in the lobby. The road was wet from fresh rain, the air was cooler than he expected. He jogged easily over the streets, knowing them well, thanks to his insomnia. Physical exhaustion was Sam's only cure, because when he slept, it was hard, deep, dreamless. Sleep aides just nurtured the disturbing dreams he'd been having when he managed to doze._

_Adrenaline was beginning to tingle through his veins, a healthy chevron of sweat on his arms, neck and back by the time he ambled by Elliyah's apartment. He checked her windows as he always did, and noticed she was up. His legs were burning and his chest was tight with stress, more than strain, so he took the steps to the porch two-by-two and used his key to get into the lobby. It didn't take long for Sam to deduce from the smells in the hallway that Elliyah was midnight baking. Cinnamon rolls judging by the sweet, yeasty smell in the hallway. He turned the knob, knowing it was going to be unlocked._

_"What have I told you about this, Elli?" Sam bellowed, peering around the wall into the kitchen where he knew Elliyah was. "You have to lock the damn door."_

_Elliyah was in the kitchen in sweats, bare feet and a too-big Stanford tee-shirt. She barely startled when Sam suddenly appeared in her kitchen. "I just left to take the trash out, like ten minutes ago, I forgot, Sam."_

_"Anyone could have walked in."_

_Elliyah rolled her silvery eyes at her friend. "Why are you here at one in the morning stinking up my kitchen, Smelly McGoo?"_

_"Can't sleep. Again."_

_Elliyah sighed, and handed him a bottle of water. "I'd give you some of these, but they're for paying customers."_

_Sam chuckled as he guzzled the bottle of water and leaned against the wall of her painfully small kitchen. "Can't believe you managed to put yourself through school baking with that rickety stove."_

_Elliyah liberally frosted three pans of cinnamon rolls, and smiled. "Beats stripping."_

_"Ha, probably."_

_"What's going on, Sam?"_

_"What do you mean?"_

_"You called me two nights ago at midnight, and kept me on the phone for three hours. You were over here installing a deadbolt—"_

_"…which you don't use…"_

_"…last week, and now this," she finished with a glare. "You can tell me anything. Even the things you can't tell Jess," she added quietly._

_Sam scratched at the label of the water bottle with his thumbnail. He'd been struggling the past week since he'd gotten his amazing LSAT scores. He'd wanted to believe that it was the open-ended possibility of his future, the inherit and deeply engrained pessimism that came from growing up with a dead mother and a revenge-crazed father that made him feel so anxious and downright scared about the future, about the things in the darkness. He was mere months away from everything he'd ever wanted, and it was terrifying. Sam's life at Stanford was built on a foundation of lies and half-truths and he could lose it all. Elliyah knew more about his childhood and his life since they'd been friends those first overwhelming weeks at Stanford. He'd told her more than he'd intended, more than he'd told Jess. It was necessary deceit._

_"I know you wouldn't. I just…it's right there, ya know? And it's hard to believe that I'll be able to get it."_

_"Get what?"_

_"My brass ring." Sam smiled wistfully._

_Elliyah said just as softly. "If anyone deserves it, it's you, Sam."_

_He shrugged off the compliment, and shot to his feet, adrenaline and anxiety making him restless. "You done here? Let's go out."_

_"Don't you have a girlfriend? It's her job to keep you entertained."_

_"She's sleeping, and I'm boooored. Elli, let's go. Come on."_

_Elliyah chanced a glance at Sam's epic pout and relented almost immediately. She wiped her hands on a dishtowel and stepped into her flip-flops. "All right. You want to stock up on some tools in case you gotta take someone out?"_

_Sam chuckled as he held the door open for her, and she slipped under his arm, "I have a screwdriver in my pocket."_

_They drifted, venturing towards the beach and away from the campus, as they talked like the old friends they were. The night was cool and bright. The sand was heavy and wet underfoot. Elliyah plopped down in the sand and Sam followed. He stared out at the glittering black of the ocean—a sight he'd never taken for granted. It was beautiful and breathtaking. Sam felt free by the water, like he could escape his nightmares or the pressures he put on himself to be everything his father thought he couldn't._

_"How's Jess?" Elliyah asked, breaking the rare silence between them._

_"She's fine." He scratched his cheek. "We had a thing, ya know, a tense few days. We…thought she was pregnant."_

_She gasped beside him. "Really?"_

_"Yeah, we took the tests. And they all came back positive. But, she wasn't."_

_"You almost sound disappointed. Most guys would be heading for the border."_

_Sam shrugged. The idea of that baby was still a precious, golden thing, and he felt a little empty now that it was just a figment of his imagination._

_There was a small hand on his shoulder, offering support and understanding. "It's okay to be disappointed, Sam."_

_"I am," he admitted with a lilt of sadness. "I think Jess is more relieved than anything. She wants babies, but she also wants travel and her career and a house first."_

_"Considering she has to carry it, I can see why she feels that way."_

_"Yeah, it does. It's just…that was all I ever wanted, and it was right there."_

_Elliyah nudged him with a laugh. "It's still right there, Sam. Just because it's not happening right this second, doesn't mean it won't happen later. Why are you rushing everything?"_

_Sam drew circles in the sand, sigils and wards that shouldn't have been so easily remembered. "I feel like…something's coming or like it's never going to happen or that it's all going to unravel." He'd been coiled and sickened with dread since he'd dreamt of hellfire and stalking monsters._

_"You're not going to lose, Jess," Elliyah said softly. "That woman loves you. She loves you insanely, anyone can see it. You two aren't like most of the couples we know. They're in it for a good time, convenient sex. You and Jess…are the real thing."_

_He never doubted how much he was loved, because it colored everything she did, from the bagels she bought him on Tuesday mornings to her learning how to cook to give him the home-cooked meals he'd never had as a child. "Things fall apart. People break up all the time. Like you and what's-his-name."_

_"His name was Marcus, and I'm like, 99 percent sure he was gay. We're still friends."_

_Sam fell back in the sand, feeling it smush into his hair and dampen the back of his sweatshirt. Elliyah turned towards him, chocolate soft curls rustling in the breeze like black silk. Parts of her face were bathed in the ivory light of the moon, and she looked ethereal, beautiful in a way Sam had never noticed before. She winked at him before falling back in the sand beside him, her fingers brushing his. "We should make one of those pacts." She announced._

_"Those 'if we're not married by forty, we marry each other' pacts? Like in the movies?"_

_"Yeah, why not? If it all falls apart, if Jess runs away to India to join a cult or realizes that she's a lesbian, and I'm not married to Justin Timberlake, we should marry each other."_

_He laughed, shoulders divotting the sand. The starts were infinite and breath-taking. Something unfurled inside of him, and he could draw in a full breath, let his guard down. "I'd be honored," Sam grinned. "Only if Jess is a lesbian though. If she's not, I still have a chance."_

_Sam was pelted with sand. "Such a hopeless romantic."_

_"Thanks for listening, Elli."_

_"Maybe you should look at rings. For Jess."_

_Sam smiled, knowingly. "Already have."_

-7-

Sam smiled a bit at the memory. He shifted, sliding his hand across the smooth vinyl until he found Elliyah's. She squeezed back. Hard.

"I missed you," he whispered.

"I missed you," she agreed. "You know you're built like a tank, right?"

Sam snorted with laughter. "Yep."

-7-

They stopped about an hour of from Vegas in a motel that thankfully wasn't as disgusting as some of the dives they'd been staying in, but it wasn't that great. Sam tried not to be embarrassed at the way he lived his life as they entered the room. Dean was taken aback at how oddly quiet were, stealing glimpses of each other like two kids at a sixth grade dance. It wasn't exactly the heartfelt reunion he had expected.

Sam and Dean began their nightly rituals of readying the room: wards, salt, weapons, while Elliyah was washed up in the bathroom.

"What'd you tell her…about the…ya know?" Sam whispered as he turned down the bed, pulling up the sheets searching for bedbugs.

Dean scratched the side of his face. He was clearly as exhausted as Sam was, but somehow he kept going, probably powered by some fraternal duty and copious amounts of caffeine. "Um, I said the mob was after us, like 'Godfather' mob—not the demon mob."

Sam barked a laugh, "And she believed you?"

"I'm a damn good liar."

Elliyah poked her head through the door, wavy hair spilling over her shoulder. "Sam, you have something I can wear?"

"Hang on." Sam dug through his duffel, passed a few blood-stained garments, and tossed her a clean flannel.

She ducked back in the bathroom and returned a few minutes later swathed in flannel that brushed her knees.

Dean toed his boots off. "Sam…and I can double up on his bed if you want to…" He trailed off as Elliyah crawled over the bed Sam was sitting on and under the covers. "Or there's fine."

Sam fell back on the bed, and locked eyes with his friend. Dean watched as she lifted a hand and carded it through his hair, caressing his face. Sam closed his eyes, smiling in a sleepy, soft way he hadn't in years, turning into the contact. Elliyah sighed, dropping a kiss on his forehead.

Dean's stomach hurt as he watched the display. Dean had only been in love once—and even that he was sure it was borne out of palpable loneliness—but he knew it when he saw it.

And he definitely knew when he was a third wheel.

He closed his eyes and willed his body to move. It had been almost fifty hours without any real sleep and even walking a few feet to the Impala seemed running a marathon. He pushed himself up as Elliyah laid back on the pillow. She frowned, reach her hand beneath it to pull out one of Sam's 45s. She held it like it was a disgusting thing, with a mere two fingers on the butt. "What the hell? Sam?"

Sam narrowed his eyes, and took the gun with ease. He thumbed the safety on and set it on the nightstand. "Sorry."

"Liberals," Dean scoffed. Dean finally regained control of his body and shoved up from the bed. "The night's young…I'm gonna go…um, outside. Good night, Elliyah." He slipped out of the door before Sam could protest. "Sam, use protection." He dodged the pillow Sam lobbed at the door.

"Since when do you sleep with guns under your pillow?"

"Since the mob's after me," Sam said, cracking one eye to look at her face.

Elliyah nodded but he still saw the disbelief. "Not buyin' it, huh?"

"Not really, no. You'd have to do a lot to piss off organized crime, and even then they'd get bored after a few decades. What's going on, Sam? Why are you running? Why are you faking your own death?"

Sam sighed. "A lot of it is too complicated to explain."

"Try."

"What's after me has somehow taken my whole family. It's worse than you can possibly imagine, Elliyah. I can't live the life I wanted, so I fight."

"For what?"

Sam closed his eyes. He didn't remember anymore. He didn't trust people. He didn't trust himself around kids. He'd spent so long traversing the borders of society, hiding from the law, staying out of sight, that he sometimes thought he was invisible. "I'm…I'm not the happy, go-lucky kid I was at Stanford, I never was. It was just lies."

"I don't believe that," Elliyah countered with shades of the stubbornness Sam had remembered.

He opened his eyes again, and saw her through sleep-wavering vision. Elliyah in a seedy motel room with peeling wallpaper and stained carpet, with guns and demonic booby-traps was the culmination of fears, but he didn't have the energy to be angry anymore, and he had run out of heartache.

"I got Jess killed." He blurted out, imagining a possessed Brady entered his house while Jess was baking cookies. "The…monsters that killed my mother killed Jess. I didn't even tell her about that part of my life."

Elliyah stared at him, mouth agape. Sam hadn't asked what happened to the rest of his friends. He just knew they'd been eradicated like all of his mother's family. For some reason, Elliyah was here, but now, there were shadows of grief in her eyes. It was a darkness he knew too well.

He pushed up on his elbows. "What happened to you?"

Elliyah's face twitched and her body felt rigid, fingers cold. "My…fiancé killed himself, two years ago. Slit his throat while I was at the grocery store."

Sam gulped. Humans didn't slit their own throats. Demons did. It was effective, disturbing and unforgettably dramatic.

"And I felt like…it was my fault. I lived with him and I didn't see it. I didn't see that he was hurting or that he needed more than I could give him…"

"Elli…"

"I felt like m-my world died too…like I'd never have anything normal or safe or good." Elliyah's voice was clogged with tears.

Sam's throat tightened with the urge to cry for her and with her. She articulated how Sam had felt in mounting degrees for years. His eyes were wet when he sat up and grabbed her, pulling her to him. She pressed her face into his chest, and shook silently as she cried.

He'd done this a million times in college, through break-ups or breakdowns, and one terrifying night after she'd been mugged. He hummed softly, pulled the blanket over them both.

They didn't speak for hours. They didn't need to.

"I loved you, you know that, right?"

Sam smiled wistfully. "Yeah, I knew. Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because you loved Jess more. You loved her so fiercely…"

"That's the only way Winchesters know how to do it," Sam whispered. "Did he…love you like that?"

"Milo? Yeah, he did."

Sam smiled. "Good."

He twisted his fingers around the curls in her hair. "I have to do something…something important and I don't think I can do it." Sam had had an insane idea about letting the devil in, overpowering him, and jumping into the pit himself. It was the foolhardy kind of Hail-Mary they needed. It would right his wrongs, put him where he deserved to be, and, most importantly, save Dean from Michael.

But Dean didn't believe in him, and Sam didn't know if he believed in himself.

"You seem different, Sam, but _I see you_…you're in there," Elliyah said easily, tilting her head up to look at him. Her silver eyes shone in the light. "Under all the muscles, I'm assuming. But whatever you have to do, you can do it."

"I just…I don't think I'm that person anymore. I feel…I feel like I'm tainted or poison."

Elliyah draped an arm around his waist. "After Milo, I felt like that…I still do."

"You do understand." He replied, a little awed. A traffic hummed on the nearby interstate and the room was dark save for the yellow gleam from the parking lot. It reminded him of that night lifetimes ago on a beach in California when he was inches away from everything he ever wanted.

Elliyah sat up, the flannel of Sam's shirt sliding off her shoulder to reveal a soft brown shoulder. "Marry me," she breathed.

"Wh-what?"

"Remember that pact we made? At the beach."

"Of course." He'd just been thinking about it.

"We're both damaged goods. Let's do it."

"You have to go back to your life, Elli. I…I probably won't see you much after this, it's not safe."

Elliyah wiped her eyes and push up onto her folded up on her knees. "Then I'll go back as your wife."

"…but…babe…"

"Sam, I'm not going to beg you—that's not how this works. I want…some good, I need some good. I know I probably won't see you again. I just…I want…"

Sam's head was spinning and his stomach curled with something aglow and decidedly good. Elliyah was chattering away, but Sam didn't hear it. He didn't need to. "Stand up."

"What…"

"Stand up."

Elliyah climbed off the bed and stood awkwardly in front of the window. Sam stood up too, in dirt-smudged jeans and a tee shirt that covered old scars, new wounds and a dirtied soul. He took Elliyah's hand, and knelt on one knee to propose marriage.

-7-

Dean was finally asleep, doing very naughty things to Halle Berry, when her screams of earth-shattering passion suddenly sounded like knocking. "You gotta be kidding me," he groaned as he opened his eyes, pulled down the blanket and uncoiled himself from cramped position he'd taken in the back seat of the Impala.

He leaned forward to roll down the window. He saw Sam, all glittering eyes and awed smile. "Whoa…what's going on?"

"Call Bobby."

"Why?"

And then his little brother grinned in that blessed-out way he did when he was thrilled. It was an expression Dean hadn't seen in years. "Because I'm getting married."

"I must be hallucinating from lack of sleep, but _come again_."

"I'm getting married." Sam pounded the hood with his fist. "Up and at 'em. Call Bobby. Tell him to meet us in Vegas."

-7-

Sam had wanted so much out of life, and he hadn't gotten it. He'd treaded the murky waters of darkness. He'd buried his father and then his brother; his surrogate mother and her daughter. But somehow, he managed to grab a bit of good and a hint of normal.

In a suite in Las Vegas, there was an intimate wedding. The groom and best man wore cheap black suits—the only ones they had. The bride wore a distinctly untraditional dress made of silk awash with kaleidoscoping colors and no veil. They were married by a curmudgeonly old man in a trucker hat, who'd been ordained on the internet mere hours before. The bride and groom exchanged rings of blessed silver.

The reception was an endless buffet and blackjack and poker and dancing. The first dance was on the balcony of their beautiful hotel room—a gift from the brother and best man—as the lights of Vegas sparkled and dazzled behind them. Elliyah laughed as Sam twirled her, the skirts of her dress fluttered in the breeze. He laughed too, a little tipsy, but intoxicated by the beauty around him, the ring on his finger and his wife in his arms. Sam felt _powerful_, and it wasn't champagne or poisoned blood or vengeful anger, it was love and humanity and reassurance that there was something worth fighting for, worth sacrificing for, that people were decent and kind and innocent.

It wasn't the life he wanted or even what he deserved, but it was his and in the end, Sam got his family. Something bigger than him had made sure of it. And as Elliyah led him into the room and their wedding bed, Sam was dizzy and tingling and empowered by the past few days. He could climb a mountain. He could do what needed to be done.

He could save the world.


End file.
